


With Heroin in His Veins

by LyraNgalia



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coping, Crossover, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/M, Hallucinations, Heroin, Punishment, Self-Flagellation, Stealth Crossover, Terrible Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With heroin in his veins, The Woman of Sherlock Holmes' dreams becomes a far different creature than the one he knew in life. (BBC Sherlock/Elementary crossover, sort of)</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Heroin in His Veins

After her death, he dreamed of her.  
  
Of Irene with Titian in her eyes and the stains of scarlet and gamboge on her fingers, with the glint of sunlight reflecting off the Thames caught in her hair, and her smile that made him almost believe in optimism. He closed his eyes and he dreamed of her, of the stars on her skin and the warmth of her lips, of the body warm and soft beneath his hands and her fingers tight against his arm. Of the body now lost and gone, pale and bloodless, the scarlet stained on her fingers now pooled in blood on a gleaming wooden floor, marred by broken glass and spilled champagne.  
  
He dreamed of her and woke in an empty bed, clawing to consciousness tangled in sheets like ropes that he wished would strangle him and bring him to her. He dreamed of her, of sunlight and damp air, of Roman prayers and Goya prints, dreamed of holding her and her hair between his fingers, dreams that evaporated like morning mist. He regained her in sleep and lost her in wakefulness, every morning the ache new and hollow and unrelenting.  
  
The heroin helped.  
  
He dreamed of her still, but she was dark and dangerous with lips like blood and fingernails like razors against his flesh. In his dreams now, she was pale and cold and unyielding, an implacable mistress who drew leather and steel against his skin and made him keen in abject humiliation rather than loss. With heroin in his veins, he dreamed of Irene and his dreams were drenched in pain and penitence, in whips and broken skin and the coppery taste of blood. With heroin in his veins, she was the dominatrix who wrung from him blood enough to replace that on the floor. With heroin in his veins, she came to him in endless nights demanding a price that could never be reached for the woman he had lost.  
  
But when the heroin left his veins, she returned, blond and beautiful and lost. And so he took another hit, and she was dark and pale and sharp as steel. He heard her voice in his dreams and his waking moments, always out of sight, each word burying itself like a barb under his skin.  
  
It was a fitting punishment, in his mind, to carry her with him with heroin in his veins, like a dark unforgiving, untouchable angel with her whips and her scours and her smile like razor wire. She was comfort to him, comfort in punishment, self-flagellation of the purest sense. His cross to bear, to be punished by the dark twin of the woman he could not save.


End file.
